#Ski Troop Attack | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 1 year ago

Note

Yan! Alucard post season 4 with a targaryen reader and has dragons like daenerys from game of thrones or house of the dragon, how would they meet and interact? Would the first meet when the trio see the dragons flying over the village and think it is a threat or a attack, sorry if I'm ranting I just think the idea has so much potential and I can't write to save my life so I'm passing it to you❤️❤️

A/N: Okay so full disclosure, I’m not the hugest Game of Thrones fan, but I did watch a fair amount of the series (mainly for Khalessi lol, they did her so dirty in the finale!). And sorry for being MIA, just lots of real-life crap I’ve been dealing with.

Yandere Alucard (Post S4) w/ a Targaryen Reader

When our Targaryen reader first hears of a village founded under a famous monster hunter's name, yet supposedly run by the Alucard operated out of Dracula’s castle, she decides she has to see it for herself.

Much like Trevor Belmont, she is the last of her kind, the bloodline ends with her, and as such, the dragon(s) in her possession are her utmost responsibility. If she cannot find someone worthy of continuing the Targaryen line, then she will have to settle for her family’s legacy existing solely as one more relic in the Belmont hold. Without any remaining relatives to marry to keep her lineage pure, she sets atop her noble dragon steed and sets out for Village Belmont, determined to find a worthy successor, and if not, then at the very least, a worthy grave.

When she first flies over the village, it is a cloudy day; her dragon’s looming shadow initially goes unnoticed. But soon enough her dragon’s large wingspan wafts the gray skies away, leaving her and her majestic beast very little coverage.

At first sight of the beast, villagers cry and scream out, as they mistake her dragon companion for yet another wandering night creature, hellbent on eating their children and pillaging their livestock.

They alert Greta, who arrives on the scene at the same time as Alucard, his heightened vampiric senses having heard the loud thwap, thwap of the dragon’s wingspan long before the villagers could see it.

Greta organizes her troops to gather their weapons- pitchforks, swords, scythes- those sorts of things and stand ready at the entrance to the castle while at the same time, the less athletically inclined villagers are ushered inside to safety.

As the Targaryen descends with her dragon, she gives clear instructions not to harm the humans gathered before her, even though the mob before them has their weapons drawn and ready.

Descending from the sky, our Targaryen reader looks like a goddess, some sort of mythical queen, the elements of both wind and flame at her command. Alucard is immediately drawn to her, her presence, and her power. Although, he is weary of her as well. Too many have come to claim the power vacuum left by his father’s death, and he will not tolerate any vampires or supernatural beings staking a claim on his childhood home, his new village. Even if they are both insanely beautiful and a dragon rider.

Sypha and Trevor make it outside by the time the young woman dismounts. As she does, she raises her hands in surrender.

“I am not here to cause anyone harm. I am here to ask a great favor of the keepers of this Village Belmont.”

The trio approaches her, Greta staying behind, her army of villagers at the ready.

She explains who she is, how special her bloodline is, and how she, the current mother of dragons, is the last of her kind. She speaks mainly to Trevor, as he is the last of the famed Belmonts which angers Alucad greatly, although he doesn't understand why. All he knows is a rather impudent voice inside his head insists that she should be talking to him! Not that stupid Trevor! After all, it’s his castle and his hold, Belmont gifted it to him for safekeeping!

The young Targaryen asks Trevor if he would accept the privilege and the honor of keeping her dragon eggs safe deep within his hold until the time is right for them to be called upon. Of course, Alucard interrupts, saying that while dragon eggs would certainly be a first for the Belmont hold, he should like to examine them, as well as her and her dragon before making any commitments.

There’s a tense moment. Behind her, her dragon’s nostrils flare as it heavily breathes out. It seems she doesn't like to be questioned, and neither does her rider.

Alucard must be careful here. Yes, he’s smart and manipulative as a yandere but we are talking about a Targaryen here. Make no mistake, if he steps out of line enough, or causes her enough harm, he and his whole town will get barbequed. (Despite the threat, this incredible amount of power is one of the things about her Alucard finds the most sexy lol.)

I imagine the group forms a fragile allyship at first. The Targaryen teaches the villagers about her people and dragons. The orphaned children of course fall in love with her dragon, who to their credit, is very patient with them, but also lets them know when to back off with a shake of their large head or a deep growl from within their belly. She wants them to experience some bonding with the creature but she also doesn’t want them to grow too friendly and become complacent when encountering wild beasts outside of the village. Dragons are not to be trifled with, and should they encounter any one of them in the wild they are to react with wisdom, but more importantly fear.

Alucard, of course, watches all of this very interestingly, in awe of the Targaryen reader's fortitude and dedication to her companion and her role as mother of dragons. In watching her interact with the children, he can’t help but feel a swell of pride, and a longing in his heart loins for her to perhaps bear his children so that they can become keepers of dragons too.

He can't stop fantasizing about it, how perfect it would be, how incredible she would look housing their combined legacies. Their offspring would be unstoppable. With his vampiric abilities and her draconic bloodline… Not to mention his mother’s medicinal knowledge and Belmont’s collection knowledge within the Hold… By god, they could form an empire! One for creatures and humans alike, all who wish to live in peace and choose knowledge over ignorance. If only his mother and father could see him now…

Alucard knows though he must tread lightly. The Targaryen reader is smart and cunning. She did not come to be the last of her kind by being naive, no. She’s hardened, and she’s been through a great deal. She will need time to adjust to his affections.

Alucard doesn’t mind though. He has all the time in the world.

#alucard x reader #alucard imagine #yandere alucard x reader #yandere alucard #castlevania x reader #castlevania imagines #castlevania imagine #yandere #alucard castlevania #alucard #tw: yandere #yandere alucard x targaryen reader #yandere castlevania #targaryen reader

191 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 1 year ago

Text

D-Day was 80 years ago today!

D-Day was the first day of Operation Overlord, the Allied attack on German-occupied Western Europe, which began on the beaches of Normandy, France, on 6 June 1944. Primarily US, British, and Canadian troops, with naval and air support, attacked five beaches, landing some 135,000 men in a day widely considered to have changed history.

Where to Attack?

Operation Overlord, which sought to attack occupied Europe starting with an amphibious landing in northwest France, Belgium, or the Netherlands, had been in the planning since January 1943 when Allied leaders agreed to the build-up of British and US troops in Britain. The Allies were unsure where exactly to land, but the requirements were simple: as short a sea crossing as possible and within range of Allied fighter cover. A third requirement was to have a major port nearby, which could be captured and used to land further troops and equipment. The best fit seemed to be Normandy with its flat beaches and port of Cherbourg.

The Atlantic Wall

The leader of Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler (1889-1945), called his western line of defences the Atlantic Wall. It had gaps but presented an impressive string of fortifications along the coast from Spain to the Netherlands. Construction of gun batteries, bunker networks, and observation posts began as early as 1942.

Many of the German divisions were not crack troops but inexperienced soldiers, who were spending more time building defences than in vital military training. There was a woeful lack of materials for Hitler's dream of the Atlantic Wall, really something of a Swiss cheese, with some strong areas, but many holes. The German army was not provided with sufficient mines, explosives, concrete, or labourers to better protect the coastline. At least one-third of gun positions still had no casement protection. Many installations were not bomb-proof. Another serious weakness was naval and air support. The navy had a mere 4 destroyers available and 39 E-boats while the Luftwaffe's (German Air Force's) contribution was equally paltry with only 319 planes operating in the skies when the invasion took place (rising to 1,000) in the second week.

Neptune to Normandy

Preparation for Overlord occurred right through April and May of 1940 when the Royal Air Force (RAF) and United States Air Force (USAAF) relentlessly bombed communications and transportation systems in France as well as coastal defences, airfields, industrial targets, and military installations. In total, over 200,000 missions were conducted to weaken as much as possible the Nazi defences ready for the infantry troops about to be involved in the largest troop movement in history. The French Resistance also played their part in preparing the way by blowing up train lines and communication systems that would ensure the defenders could not effectively respond to the invasion.

The Allied fleet of 7,000 vessels of all kinds departed from English south-coast ports such as Falmouth, Plymouth, Poole, Portsmouth, Newhaven, and Harwich. In an operation code-named Neptune, the ships gathered off Portsmouth in a zone called 'Piccadilly Circus' after the busy London road junction, and then made their way to Normandy and the assault areas. At the same time, gliders and planes flew to the Cherbourg peninsula in the west and Ouistreham on the eastern edge of the planned landing. Paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st US Airborne Division attacked in the west to try and cut off Cherbourg. At the eastern extremity of the operation, paratroopers of the 6th British Airborne Division aimed to secure Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal. Other tasks of the paratrooper and glider units were to destroy bridges to impede the enemy, hold others necessary for the invasion to progress, destroy gun emplacements, secure the beach exits, and protect the invasion's flanks.

The Beaches

The amphibious attack was set for dawn on 5 June, daylight being a requirement for the necessary air and naval support. Bad weather led to a postponement of 24 hours. Shortly after midnight, the first waves of 23,000 British and American paratroopers landed in France. US paratroopers who dropped near Ste-Mère-Église ensured this was the first French town to be liberated. From 3.00 a.m., air and naval bombardment of the Normandy coast began, letting up just 15 minutes before the first infantry troops landed on the beaches at 6.30 a.m.

The beaches selected for the landings were divided into zones, each given a code name. US troops attacked two, the British army another two, and the Canadian force the fifth. These beaches and the troops assigned to them were (west to east):

Utah Beach - 4th US Infantry Division, 7th US Corps (1st US Army commanded by Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley)

Omaha Beach - 1st US Infantry Division, 5th US Corps (1st US Army)

Gold Beach - 50th British Infantry Division, 30th British Corps (2nd British Army commanded by Lieutenant-General Miles C. Dempsey)

Juno Beach - 3rd Canadian Infantry Division (2nd British Army)

Sword Beach - 3rd British Infantry Division, 1st British Corps (2nd British Army)

In addition, the 2nd US Rangers were to attack the well-defended Pointe du Hoc between Utah and Omaha (although it turned out the guns had never been installed there), while Royal Marine Commando units attacked targets on Gold, Juno, and Sword.

The RAF and USAAF continued to protect the invasion fleet and ensure any enemy ground-based counterattack faced air attack. As the Allies could put in the air 12,000 aircraft at this stage, the Luftwaffe's aerial fightback was pitifully inadequate. On D-Day alone, the Allied air forces flew 15,000 sorties compared to the Luftwaffe's 100. Not one single Allied aircraft was lost to enemy fire on D-Day.

Packing Normandy

By the end of D-Day, 135,000 men had been landed and relatively few casualties were sustained – some 5,000 men. There were some serious cock-ups, notably the hopeless dispersal of the paratroopers (only 4% of the US 101st Air Division were dropped at the intended target zone), but, if anything, this caused even more confusion amongst the German commanders on the ground as it seemed the Allies were attacking everywhere. The defenders, overcoming the initial handicap that many area commanders were at a strategy conference in Rennes, did eventually organise themselves into a counterattack, deploying their reserves and pulling in troops from other parts of France. This is when French resistance and aerial bombing became crucial, seriously hampering the German army's effort to reinforce the coastal areas of Normandy. The German field commanders wanted to withdraw, regroup and attack in force, but, on 11 June, Hitler ordered there be no retreat.

All of the original invasion beaches were linked as the Allies pushed inland. To aid thousands more troops following up the initial attack, two artificial floating harbours were built. Code-named Mulberries, these were located off Omaha and Gold beaches and were built from 200 prefabricated units. A storm hit on 20 June, destroying the Mulberry Harbour off Omaha, but the one at Gold was still serviceable, allowing some 11,000 tons of material to be landed every 24 hours. The other problem for the Allies was how to supply thousands of vehicles with the fuel they needed. The short-term solution, code-named Tombola, was to have tanker ships pump fuel to storage tanks on shore, using buoyed pipelines. The longer-term solution was code-named Pluto (Pipeline Under the Ocean), a pipeline under the Channel to Cherbourg through which fuel could be pumped. Cherbourg was taken on 27 June and was used to ship in more troops and supplies, although the defenders had sunk ships to block the harbour and these took some six weeks to fully clear.

Operation Neptune officially ended on 30 June. Around 850,000 men, 148,800 vehicles, and 570,000 tons of stores and equipment had been landed since D-Day. The next phase of Overlord was to push the occupiers out of Normandy. The defenders were not only having logistical problems but also command issues as Hitler replaced Rundstedt with Field Marshal Günther von Kluge (1882-1944) and formally warned Rommel not to be defeatist.

Aftermath: The Normandy Campaign

By early July, the Allies, having not got further south than around 20 miles (32 km) from the coast, were behind schedule. Poor weather was limiting the role of aircraft in the advance. The German forces were using the countryside well to slow the Allied advance – countless small fields enclosed with trees and hedgerows which limited visibility and made tanks vulnerable to ambush. Caen was staunchly defended and required Allied bombers to obliterate the city on 7 July. The German troops withdrew but still held one-half of the city. The Allies lost around 500 tanks trying to take Caen, vital to any push further south. The advance to Avranches was equally tortuous, and 40,000 men were lost in two weeks of heavy fighting. By the end of July, the Allies had taken Caen, Avranches, and the vital bridge at Pontaubault. From 1 August, Patton and the US Third Army were punching south at the western side of the offensive, and the Brittany ports of St. Malo, Brest, and Lorient were taken.

German forces counterattacked to try and retake Avranches, but Allied air power was decisive. Through August 1940, the Allies swept southwards to the Loire River from St. Nazaire to Orléans. On 15 August, a major landing took place on the southwest coast of France (French Riviera landings) and Marseille was captured on 28 August. In northern France, the Allies captured enough territory, ports, and airfields for a massive increase in material support. On 25 August, Paris was liberated. By mid-September, the Allied troops in the north and south of France had linked up and the campaign front expanded eastwards pushing on to the borders of Germany. There would be setbacks like Operation Market Garden of September and a brief fightback at the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944, but the direction of the war and ultimate Allied victory was now a question of not if but when.

#dday #dday80 #ww2 #wwii #wwii history

166 notes · View notes

fanficapologist · 10 months ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The plan was bold, a coordinated strike meant to take the Capital by surprise from every direction, with fire and steel raining down from the sky and the sea. Word had already been dispatched to Lord Unwin, commanding him to call the Dragonseeds to heel and launch an attack from the west. They would unleash their dragons upon the western border of the Crownlands, forcing Rhaenyra’s supporters to divide their forces. From the south, Prince Daeron, Aemond’s younger brother, would lead an assault from the south, rallying the houses in the Stormlands before making his push toward the Capital.

Both Aemond and his Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had a critical role to play. The King and his most trusted advisor were to make their way north to the Riverlands, from where they would descend upon King’s Landing with a force that no one could ignore. Ser Criston would begin by taking Harrenhal, using it as a staging ground to gather their troops. Aemond, riding his mighty dragon Vhagar, would lead the charge on the Capital from the north, burning through any resistance with a fury no force could withstand.

And Maera, though injured and nursing a wounded collarbone, was not to be left behind. Once her body had healed enough to take to the skies again, she would launch her own attack. She would lead the eastern assault on the Capital, riding her powerful blue and black dragon, Ēbrion. Her task was to strike from the east while the fleet of Morne, which she had inherited, sailed into Blackwater Bay below, cutting off King’s Landing from the sea.

The coordinated attack was set to take place in three weeks, once Criston Cole had reached Harrenhal and the ground troops were ready to move. It was a plausible plan, one designed to overwhelm their enemy from all directions. Every piece was carefully placed, every move calculated. Victory seemed certain. Right?

Late one evening, the Queen had gone in search of her husband. Her collarbone still ached, though the maesters assured her it was healing well. She was eager to discuss the final details of the attack, but when she entered the grand hall, she found him sitting upon the throne of Dragonstone. The throne was carved from blackened volcanic stone, its jagged edges sharp and foreboding, much like the man who now sat upon it.

Aemond’s usual poise and control were absent, replaced by a seething fury that rippled through the room like a living thing. His one eye, cold and piercing, was fixed on a letter gripped tightly in his hand, the parchment crumpled from the force of his grip. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly that Maera could see the muscles twitching beneath his pale skin.

She hesitated at the base of the steps leading up to the ancient chair, her breath catching in her throat. The Kings rigid posture, his stormy expression, told her that something had gone terribly wrong. Steeling herself, she began to climb the steps. Each footstep echoed through the cold, stony chamber, the soft swish of her black and green skirts brushing against her legs as she ascended. The sound of her approach filled the room, but Aemond remained still, his gaze fixed on the far wall, his anger simmering beneath a surface of quiet restraint.

As she reached the top of the steps and stood before him, he didn’t look at her. Instead, he roughly extended a crumpled piece of parchment towards her, his fingers trembling slightly as he released it into her hands. The Queen accepted the letter with careful hands, her heart sinking with each passing second.

She slowly unfurled it, her green eyes darting across the page as the words leapt out at her. It was from Lord Unwin, detailing the progress—or lack thereof—with the Dragonseeds, Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White. The news was not good.

She closed her eyes and cast her head back, gazing up at the ceiling as though seeking guidance from the heavens. Silently, she prayed for strength, willing herself to remain composed, though every part of her wanted to scream. The gods, it seemed, were testing her patience, her resolve, her very will to fight.

Aemond’s muttered curse broke the silence. “Fuck.” The word was low, barely above a whisper, but the frustration in his voice was unmistakable. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his anger giving way to the weight of what they had just lost.

"Damn her for her stupidity," he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Rhaenyra's reckless arrogance has loosed this chaos upon the world. Mere men should never have been given the power of a dragon. They think themselves higher than they are. Fools."

Maera remained silent, her eyes fixed on the crumpled letter in her hand. Lord Unwin's detailed account filled her with a rising dread. He had tried to reason with the two Dragonseeds, tried to remind them of the promises made to secure their loyalty—Harrenhal for Hugh Hammer, and Horn Hill for Ulf the White. But those promises no longer held sway. Ulf had become bold, demanding Highgarden instead, his ambition reaching far beyond what was originally offered. It was outrageous, but it was the attitude of Hugh Hammer that stoked Aemond's rage to a near-blinding degree.

Hugh had claimed that none of the Targaryens—neither Rhaenyra nor Aemond—were fit to lead. He mocked them all, proclaiming that they were not gods as they so believed, for even a bastard could claim a dragon. His words dripped with contempt. And then came the final insult: Hugh Hammer had crowned himself, donning a crude black iron circlet and declaring his own claim to the Iron Throne. The audacity of the man was staggering.

As the words sunk in, Maera’s vision blurred with fury. The Dragonseeds were supposed to be pawns in this war—tools to be used and discarded when the time came. Yet, now, they fancied themselves kings and conquerors. The paper crumpled in her hand, the anger building until she could no longer hold it. With a sharp exhale, she hurled the letter across the room, the parchment hitting the stone wall with a soft thud before fluttering uselessly to the floor.

Her voice cut through the tense silence of the chamber, her tone laced with urgency. “What is to be done about it?”

Aemond straightened up on the stony throne, his sharp features shadowed in the dim light. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening as he considered the question. “Lord Unwin is planning a coup,” he replied, his voice gruff with restrained anger. “He intends to kill both cunts before their delusions can spread any further.” His tone was cold, ruthless, but Maera knew it was the only choice. There was no room for mercy with traitors like them.

Crossing his arms, Aemond shifted, his silver hair falling over his shoulder, catching the glint of the low candlelight. His crown sat heavily on his brow, a reminder of the weight they both bore in this war. “As for Vermithor and Silverwing…”he continued, his voice thoughtful now. “We may just have to cut our losses.”

The Queen nodded, her mind turning over the plan. Hugh and Ulf were beyond reasoning, that much was clear. More importantly, they had become dangerous threats to the Greens. With the war pressing in from all sides, they couldn’t afford to fight multiple enemies at once. The Dragonseeds needed to go. As for the dragons, the likelihood of anyone else successfully claiming them was slim. Most who had tried, thanks to Rhaenyra’s reckless decision to arm bastards with dragons, had died in the process. Yet, as much as the betrayers needed to die, the loss of the beasts could severely impact the Green’s power in the Dance of the Dragons.

Still, her thoughts drifted to other methods that could be used to win the battle. “And Daeron?” she asked, her voice softening. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy, who was reportedly very different from his older brothers. Aegon and Aemond became ruthless Targaryen Princes, raised in Kings Landing. Whereas Daeron, raised in Oldtown, was gentler, more placid, adept with a lute as he was with his sword.

Lord Unwin had made it clear that the youngest Prince was being pushed around by Hugh and Ulf, disrespected and mocked at every turn when he attempted to regain control in Tumbleton with Lord Hobert Hightower, a spectacular failure.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, though his voice was calmer when he spoke of his brother. “Daeron will continue to the Stormlands as planned. He’ll remain at Storm’s End until we give the signal for the attack.”

Maera nodded again, though her heart ached for her brother-in-law. He would face the storm in his own time, just as they all would. The game of thrones was unforgiving, even to the young.

A chuckle broke the tension in the room. She turned her head and saw Aemond shaking his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Daeron hasn’t seen his lady wife in some time,” he remarked with an amused glint in his eye. “It’ll do him good to spend some time at Storm’s End. Perhaps he’ll even try to conceive an heir while he’s there.”

The Queen breathed out a soft laugh, raising her brows in surprise. It had nearly slipped her mind that Daeron was wed to Lady Ellyn Baratheon. The marriage had been an arrangement made after Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Floris Baratheon had been broken off so that he could marry Maera instead. That deal had reshuffled the pieces in the game, requiring another Targaryen prince to strengthen the Baratheon alliance. Daeron had been forced to take up that mantle, his union to Lady Ellyn smoothing over any lingering tensions between the houses.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maera noticed Aemond gesturing subtly with his hand, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. She stepped closer, her heart softening as she placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, as he ran his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar gesture of affection. His touch paused over the golden and sapphire ring that gleamed on her finger—the one he had given her before their wedding. A rare, gentle smile curved his lips as he admired the ring, the stone reflecting the same rich blue as his sapphire eye that lay beneath his leather patch.

Yet his wife’s thoughts turned dark as the weight of the future pressed on her mind. War was uncertain; its outcome impossible to predict. Between the Blacks and the Greens, only one side could emerge victorious, and if it was to be Aemond, the succession needed to be secured. With every battle, the stakes grew higher, and Maera knew that a kingdom needed more than a victorious king—it needed a clear line of inheritance.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at her husband. “Once the invasion is done, Daeron should be named Prince of Dragonstone.” Her voice was measured but firm, the thought fully formed in her mind. Aemond raised a brow at her suggestion, his expression one of slight surprise. Before he could question her, Maera continued, “He is your heir, after all.”

Aemond’s lips quirked into a smirk, his gaze sharpening. “For now,” he purred, a playful yet serious tone beneath his words. Then, without warning, he yanked Maera forward until she was perched on his lap, her body pressed against his. His sharp nose brushed against the length of her neck, his breath warm as he inhaled the familiar scent of her hair. His voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper. “Until we conceive a son,” he murmured, his lips grazing her ear.

A giggle escaped Maera’s lips as she pressed her hands against his chest, feigning an attempt to push him away. “Issa darys,” my King, she said, a note of laughter in her voice, “as much as I admire your enthusiasm…” Her cheeks flushed slightly as she added, “My moonsblood hasn’t returned since Aemara was born.” But despite her playful resistance, Aemond only tightened his arms around her, his hold possessive and unyielding.

The Queen felt her husband’s lips peppering kisses upon her skin, his touch sending a shiver through her body. She squirmed slightly in his lap, her skin prickling at the warmth of his mouth against her. A gasp escaped her when he bit down harshly, her breath catching as she heard him chuckle against her skin. She pulled back, cupping his cheek with one hand, determined to steady herself and not get distracted.

"It may be some time before we conceive another child." She searched his eye, wanting to know that he understood the gravity of her next words. "To secure the succession, Daeron should be formally recognized. It would strengthen our position."

Aemond sighed, his hand gently stroking her back in slow, reassuring circles. With his other hand, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing it with a tenderness that contrasted with his earlier roughness. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "Once again, you show your wisdom, issa daria,” my Queen, he murmured, his tone a mix of admiration and resignation. "A ceremony for Daeron will be prepared. But only once the invasion is done."

Maera smiled, her tension easing as she nodded in agreement. The future still held uncertainty, but she was satisfied they had set the right course for now. Aemond, ever pragmatic, glanced at her with a wry smirk. "Perhaps your Ladies could help plan the ceremony?"

His wife chuckled softly, her fingers brushing through the loose strands of his silver hair. "I will put them to work," she replied with a smile, already imagining how she could enlist them in the preparations. The weight of the world had not left their shoulders, but for a brief moment, Maera allowed herself to feel the smallest sense of hope, their plans slowly falling into place.

The King tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze softening as his hand hovered just above Maera’s collarbone. His fingers reached out, lightly stroking the green and black fabric of her dress, the silk smooth under his touch. "And how is your wound healing?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with genuine concern.

Maera grinned, rolling her shoulder back with a confident ease. "It’s healing well," she replied, feeling a warmth in her chest at his attentiveness. She moved her arm slightly to show him, the motion fluid. "I hardly feel it now," she added, her tone light and proud of her recovery.

Her husband hummed softly in response, his hand lingering near her skin before dropping back to his lap. Maera caught the way his single violet eye raked over her, taking in the curve of her body, lingering a little longer than usual. His gaze settled on her chest, and she saw the subtle shift in his posture, his interest plain despite his calm demeanor.

A slow smirk tugged at the corners of the Queen’s lips as she met his gaze. "Is there anything else I could do to assist you this evening, my King?" she asked, her voice playful, laced with suggestion. The tension between them shifted, thickening as her question hung in the air.

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his eye flickering with amusement and desire, as if silently weighing her offer with all the seriousness of a council decision. His finger trailed lightly along her jaw, sending shivers down her spine as her heart thumped loudly in her chest. His touch was soft but deliberate, and she could see the devilish grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "I wish for my Queen to get on her knees and ease my troubles," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire.

Maera gasped softly at his lewd command, her breath catching in her throat. But before she could react further, his other hand moved roughly to squeeze her upper thigh, his grip firm and possessive. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "And since my wife is such a skilled dragon rider, perhaps she can demonstrate her mastery by riding me upon the throne of our ancestors."

A wicked smile spread across Maera's lips, her eyes gleaming with amusement and anticipation. "I couldn't very well refuse my King, now could I?" she replied softly, her voice thick with playful submission.

Without a word, Aemond pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers with an urgency that took her breath away. His kiss was fierce, filled with hunger as he claimed her mouth. The heat between them ignited instantly, her body responding to the raw need in his touch. His lips moved with hers, demanding and insistent, his grip on her thigh tightening as he deepened the kiss.

Aemond's tongue traced her bottom lip, teasing her, silently demanding more. She parted her lips for him without hesitation, inviting him in. Their tongues met in a feverish dance, his rough and commanding while hers answered with equal intensity. Each movement was deliberate, every stroke a testament to the passion that simmered just beneath the surface.

Maera's hands explored her husband’s broad chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fine leather of his doublet. Her fingers traced the intricate stitching as they moved across his torso, lingering at the contours of his chest before sliding lower. His body was strong, hardened from years of intense training, and the power he exuded only deepened her desire for him.

As her lips left his and found the warm skin of his neck, Maera nipped lightly, teasing his pulse point with the tip of her tongue before licking along the line of his jaw. Aemond hissed at the sensation, his breath catching in his throat as her lips left a trail of heat in their wake. His hands roamed eagerly over her body, squeezing and caressing the curves hidden beneath the layers of her green and black dress.

The one-eyed King’s touch grew more urgent, and his hands found her breasts, feeling the peaks of her nipples harden beneath the fabric at his touch. The warmth of her body and the soft moan she let slip fueled his growing need, and a low growl of desire escaped him, vibrating in the space between them.

Her body responded instinctively, her hips rocking against Aemond as she felt the familiar hardness of his length pressing beneath her. The heat between them intensified, and with every subtle movement, her breath hitched, her own need growing alongside his.

Unable to contain his hunger any longer, his fingers tugged eagerly at the ribbons at the front of her dress, fumbling in his desperation to untie them. He wanted to feel her bare skin against him, to rid her of the barrier between them. Each pull at the ribbons came faster, his impatience growing with every second as he sought the softness of her flesh beneath the fabric.

Just as Aemond's fingers worked eagerly at the last ribbon of her dress, desperate to pull it free, Maera grinned, a teasing glint in her eyes. Without warning, she hopped off his lap, leaving him momentarily stunned. She flashed him a sultry smile, biting her lower lip as she took a step back, her movements slow and deliberate.

Aemond's gaze darkened, his single violet eye following her every move, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Maera, ever graceful, sank slowly to her knees before him, elegantly adjusting her skirts so they fanned around her like a pool of fabric. Her hands smoothed over the green and black silk, her posture poised and deliberate. When she looked up at him, her gaze was smoldering with intent, full of confidence and allure.

She reached for the ties of his breeches, her fingers deftly undoing the knot that held them together. With practiced ease, she freed him from the confines of the fabric, her hand wrapping around his cock, warm and firm. Aemond's breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as her delicate fingers closed around him, stroking slowly at first, tracing the length of his shaft with the lightest of touches.

He groaned deeply, the sound guttural and raw, his head tilting back as the sensation overwhelmed him. Her fingers moved with deliberate care, teasing him, exploring him, her touch gentle yet purposeful. Maera watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his muscles tightened beneath her ministrations.

His breaths came ragged as he looked down at Maera, her delicate hand still wrapped around him. "Do you intend to spend the whole evening teasing me, wife?" Aemond asked, his voice strained, a mixture of impatience and desire lacing his words.

The Queen’s lips curled into a wicked smile. She leaned forward, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to the tip of his length, causing him to hiss sharply at the sensation. "I just might," she purred, her green eyes flashing with mischief.

Before he could respond, she took him fully into her mouth in one swift motion, silencing any retort. Aemond's hand flew to her brown and silver curls, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her in place, groaning deeply as the warmth of her mouth enveloped him. Her lips wrapped tightly around him, and she sucked harshly on the tip, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his veins.

Her tongue moved expertly, swirling around the head before she began to take him deeper, inch by inch, her throat relaxing as she swallowed him whole. Aemond's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped her hair tighter, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that threatened to undo him. Maera's mouth was relentless, her rhythm deliberate, and she could feel his legs tremble beneath her as a loud, guttural groan echoed through the grand hall.

“Gods be good.” With a low growl, he tightened his grip on her hair, guiding her movements as he took control. He brought her up slowly before lowering her mouth back down onto him, over and over again, his body shuddering with every pass of her lips. She whined softly against him, the vibrations of her voice sending shocks of pleasure through his already overstimulated body, intensifying the experience.

Her knees ached against the cold, hard stone floor, the discomfort biting into her skin, but she paid it no mind. To please her King, to show him the depth of her love and devotion, she would endure far more than this. Aemond's temper, his rage-he needed this, needed her, and she would gladly serve him in this way.

Maera's thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Aemond yanked her head off his throbbing length, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. His face was flushed, his violet eye dark with desire and need. Without a word, he pulled her forward, making her climb onto his lap once more.

In a swift, almost desperate motion, he hiked her skirts high above her hips, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs to the cool air of the room. His rough hands gripped her bare flesh, fingers tracing the soft, rounded curves with a possessive touch. Maera's breath hitched, her heart racing as Aemond's hands moved with purpose.

Without warning, he tugged her smallclothes aside, and before she could catch her breath, his fingers plunged deep inside her. A sharp gasp escaped her throat, her body instinctively arching against him. His thumb found the bundle of nerves at her center, pressing down firmly, sending waves of ecstasy through her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, her body moving of its own accord as he expertly teased and tormented her.

"Aemond," she whined, her voice breathless as her fingers clutched his shoulders for support. He chuckled darkly at her reaction, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

"Not so nice to be teased, is it?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words sent a shiver down her spine as his thumb pressed harder against her, circling with maddening precision. Maera gasped again, her grip tightening on him as the familiar sensation began to build low in her stomach, her body responding to his every touch. The pressure grew and grew with each deliberate stroke of his fingers, the coil inside her winding tighter and tighter, leaving her at his mercy.

Her nails dug into Aemond's shoulders, her body squirming in his lap as she rocked her hips against his hand. Each movement sent another jolt through her, her breath coming out in ragged pants. Desperation clawed at her, the tension in her body building to an unbearable peak as his fingers thrust in and out of her, each stroke more agonizing than the last. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, her mind clouded with the need for release.

"Please..." she gasped, her voice shaky and broken, pleading for mercy as the coil within her tightened to a breaking point. He responded with a dark, satisfied smirk, his single violet eye glinting with control.

"Peak for me," he growled, his fingers curling inside her just right, his thumb pressing firmly against her sensitive bundle of nerves. "Then, I'll give you what you want."

With a choked gasp, the tension inside her snapped. A wave of euphoria crashed over her, and she came undone on his fingers. Maera's hips bucked, grinding down against his hand as she rode out her high, her entire body trembling with the intensity of her release. She moaned loudly, her grip on his shoulders tightening as her vision blurred, her mind lost in the overwhelming sensation.

When her climax finally subsided, Aemond slowly withdrew his fingers, his gaze locked on her flushed face as she tried to steady her breathing. He wasted no time, grabbing his length and running the flushed tip teasingly through her slick folds. Maera whimpered softly, her body still sensitive from the peak he had just given her.

Aemond's other hand found her hip, his grip firm as he held her in place. Without warning, he began to slowly lower her onto him, inch by agonizing inch. Maera gasped, her mouth falling open as he filled her completely, the stretch of him almost too much to handle all at once. She felt every inch of him as he sank deeper inside her, her body trembling as she adjusted to his size.

The pressure was exquisite, and as he bottomed out inside her, Maera bit her lip, her body molding perfectly to his. Aemond groaned lowly, his hand gripping her hip tighter, his restraint palpable as he held her still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside her.

Maera began to rock against him with fervor, her movements fluid and desperate. With each roll of her hips, his length brushed that perfect, spongey spot within her, sending pleasure through her body like lightning. A moan escaped her lips, breathy and uncontrolled, as she rode him with determination.

Her green eyes never left his, locked in an intense gaze that mirrored the hunger they both felt. Their mouths hung open, panting and gasping for breath as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Each thrust seemed to pull them deeper into the shared bliss, their connection unbreakable upon the throne of Dragonstone.

Aemond gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening. Planting his feet firmly on the stone floor, he seized control, bucking his hips upward to meet hers with a force that made her cry out. His hands gripped her hips tightly, guiding her down onto him with each powerful thrust. The rhythm they created together was frantic, filled with heat and a desperation that consumed them.

Aemond's voice was thick with lust as he murmured, "You’re perfect. Fuck, my perfect Queen," his words shooting straight to Maera's core, adding fuel to the fire already burning deep within her. His praise sent a wave of heat through her body, tightening the coil of pleasure that wound tighter with every thrust.

He began to pound into her with an almost brutal pace, chasing his own release. Each rough movement caused her to gasp, her body trembling under the force of his desire. As he thrust into her, Maera reached out with a trembling hand, carefully straightening the Conqueror's crown upon his head with a small, playful smile. The sight of him wearing it, regal and powerful, only spurred her on, reminding her of the kingly man beneath her.

Aemond's grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned as he sped up, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate. Maera could feel him swelling inside her, her own pleasure building to an unbearable peak once more. With a guttural moan, she leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear, "Please, my King. Cum deep inside of me," she commanded, her voice low and full of desire.

Her words were his undoing. Aemond's hips jerked up into her one final time as he groaned loudly, the sound vibrating against her skin. His release came in a hot wave, filling her completely as his body trembled beneath his wife, her second orgasm following moments after. He buried his face in her neck, their breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat as they clung to one another, the intensity of their shared pleasure leaving them both breathless.

For now, the war seemed distant and unimportant, its looming shadow momentarily forgotten in the intimacy of their shared embrace. The tension and bloodshed that had consumed their days and nights melted away, leaving only the warmth of their bodies pressed together, hearts still racing in the aftermath of their passion.

As their breaths began to settle, the frantic energy that had fueled them ebbed, replaced by a soft calm. Maera and Aemond remained tangled together upon the stony throne, her fingers lazily tracing the lines of his jaw as his arms tightened around her, unwilling to let go. The flicker of candlelight cast soft, flickering shadows over their entwined forms, the grand hall silent but for the occasional crackle of the flames.

They sat in the darkness, wrapped in each other's warmth, savoring this fleeting moment of peace, knowing the chaos of war still awaited them. Yet, for now, they allowed themselves to simply be.

Notes: little smutty diversion 😍 and an interesting development next week 🖤 (also I hate writing smut! I’m an over perfectionist and it stresses me out 🤣 I hope y’all enjoy it at least, been a while since she sucked his dick)

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

68 notes · View notes

dreaminginthedeepsouth · 13 days ago

Text

Waging war by tweet.

June 18, 2025

Robert B. Hubbell

The Framers of the Constitution understood that declaring war was a consequential decision that should not be entrusted to a single person. Accordingly, the Constitution grants Congress—not the president—the power to declare war. Under certain circumstances and for limited periods, the president can send the US military into conflict under an “authorization for the use of military force” that has been pre-approved by Congress in the form of a joint resolution.

On Tuesday, the American public and Congress learned that Trump has apparently committed US troops to the conflict between Israel and Iran. In seventy-two hours, the US position on the conflict has gone from “We are not involved” to Trump posting on Truth Social that

“[W]e now have complete and total control of the skies over Iran . . . .” [W]e know exactly where [Iran’s supreme leader] is. [But] we are not going to take him out (kill!), at least for now.” Iran must agree to “UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER!”

For further details, see NYTimes, Trump Calls for Iran’s ‘Unconditional Surrender’ and Threatens Its Supreme Leader (Accessible to all.)

Seizing control of another nation’s sovereign airspace, suggesting the killing of its supreme political leader, and demanding “unconditional surrender” amounts to waging war.

JD Vance posted on social media that Trump was considering destroying Iran’s uranium enrichment capability, an action that could be accomplished only by the US dropping “bunker busting” bombs on Iran. JD Vance claimed that Trump had the unilateral authority to decide whether to attack another country. Vance wrote,

That decision [to attack Iran] ultimately belongs to the president.

Wrong. The decision to declare war belongs to Congress. Attacking another country to destroy its ability to build nuclear weapons and to kill its political leader is waging war.

Assuming for discussion that it is appropriate for the US to attack Iran and kill its political leader, the Constitution provides a clear mechanism for authorizing the Commander-in-Chief to wage war. JD Vance’s claim that the decision to attack Iran “belongs to the president” ignores the Constitution—a tactic that is the standard operating procedure of the Trump administration.

In addition to Trump's tweets, there is other evidence that the US is currently engaged in supporting Israel’s military operations against Iran. See the following clip of Tucker Carlson interviewing Ted Cruz about the US military’s role in supporting Israel. YouTube, Tucker vs. Ted Cruz on War with Iran. (Although citing to Tucker Carlson is unusual for this newsletter, the interview clip is worth two minutes of your time—I promise.)

For every president other than Trump, any move by the president to involve US troops in armed conflict has led to howls of protest in Congress and the media. See, e.g., this article in Politico from April 5, 2011: GOPers oppose Libya intervention.

In 2011, Senate Republicans opposed President Obama’s air strikes on Libya, sponsoring a resolution that stated, in part,

The president does not have power under the Constitution to unilaterally authorize a military attack in a situation that does not involve stopping an actual or imminent threat to the [United States].

Yet on Tuesday evening, most of the coverage of Trump's threats to bomb Iran is limited to breathless repetition of “Will he, or won’t he?” rather than, “The president does not have the power under the Constitution to unilaterally authorize a military attack.”

Apart from the constitutional infirmities of Trump's unilateral actions against Iran, waging war by tweet is stupid, undisciplined, and dangerous. Attacking another nation and threatening to kill its leader is serious business that should be decided through sober discussion with civilian and military experts.

Trump consulted with none of those experts. Instead, he surprised them all by committing the US to an action that may risk the lives and safety of US soldiers and civilians across the globe.

There is a movement in Congress to force Trump to seek congressional authorization for any attack on Iran. See Time, Israel-Iran: U.S. Lawmakers Move to Limit Trump’s War Powers.

Per Time,

Reps. Thomas Massie (R-Ky.) and Ro Khanna (D-Calif.) introduced a war powers resolution on Tuesday that asserts the requirement of Congress’ approval if Trump wants to commit armed forces to military action in the region. Outspoken progressive Reps. Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.) and Ilhan Omar (D-Minn.), replied “Signing on” to Massie’s post. They and 12 other Democrats are cosponsoring the bill, according to Massie’s office. Sen. Tim Kaine (D-Va.) introduced a companion war powers resolution in the upper chamber on Monday that would terminate the unauthorized use of U.S. armed forces against Iran, given that there has not been a declaration of war, which only Congress can issue.

In fairness, some (many?) Senators believe that the president has the authority for a single air strike on a country without seeking a declaration of war or congressional authorization of the use of military force. Why? Answer: Because, you know, back when the Constitution was enacted, there weren’t “air strikes” or “airplanes” or “missiles.” See Axios, Congress dodges preemptive confrontation with Trump over Iran. (The sarcasm is mine, but Axios does quote Senators who say that presidents get “one free airstrike.”)

Trump's reckless use of social media to wage war and circumvent the Constitution is another reason that concerned Americans must continue to protest his policies in widespread demonstrations across the nation on a regular basis. He will keep it up until his supporters in Congress fear the American electorate more than they fear Trump.

To be clear, I am not (a) defending Iran or its pursuit of nuclear weapons, or (b) commenting on Israel’s decision to attack Iran. I have addressed the unconstitutional actions of a rogue president who is conducting a war via social media rather than seeking congressional approval, as required by the Constitution. If attacking Iran’s nuclear processing facilities is the correct course of action, doing so within the parameters set forth by the Constitution will make us stronger, not weaker.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

#war #Iran #Robert B. Hubbell #Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter #social media #Congressional authority #waging war #congress #rule of law #lawlessness

17 notes · View notes

beardedmrbean · 6 days ago

Text

Less than two years ago, Iran’s government sounded triumphant.

It was November 2023, just weeks after Hamas’ deadly Oct. 7 attack on Israel, and a senior Iranian general was predicting that the regime and its proxy forces in Gaza and Lebanon were poised to vanquish Israel, the United States and other enemies.

“We are fighting America, Zionism and all those who are targeting the greatness and honor of the Islamic Revolution of Iran,” Gen. Hossein Salami, commander of the elite Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, said in a speech in the city of Kazvin.

“We are on the verge of conquering great heights. ... We are completely overcoming the enemies.”

Now Iran is in its most precarious position since the early 1980s.

Its Hezbollah allies in Lebanon have been devastated, Hamas has been eviscerated in Gaza, Tehran’s nuclear sites have been heavily bombed, and Israel’s military now owns the skies over Iran.

As for Salami, he was killed in an Israeli airstrike this month.

How Iran got here can be traced to a series of miscalculations and strategic blunders, experts and former officials say, a result of decisions made both decades and only months ago.

Tehran’s often obstinate diplomacy, overreliance on regional militants and shoddy security left it vulnerable to adversaries with much more powerful militaries. And at a crucial moment, the regime’s leaders failed to grasp the intentions and capabilities of its arch foes in Jerusalem and Washington, with no foreign partner ready to come to its aid.

“Iran was too inflexible when it had to be less stubborn,” said Ali Vaez of the International Crisis Group think tank. “It never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity.”

Among its more recent missteps, Iran failed to learn from how other countries managed their relations with President Donald Trump or how the ground had shifted after Israel devastated Iranian-backed Hezbollah militants in Lebanon, Vaez said.

But perhaps Iran’s biggest mistake was counting on those Hezbollah proxies in Lebanon in the first place to serve as a “forward defense” against any possible attack by Israel. That approach worked for years, and it dealt Israel a blow when it sent ground troops into Lebanon.

But everything changed when Hamas launched a surprise attack on Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, killing 1,200 people, mostly civilians. Iran had armed, trained and financed Hamas, and the group’s onslaught set off a chain of events that has left the regime in Tehran severely weakened and its regional power diminished.

“I think there is a direct line from Oct. 7 to today,” said Jonathan Panikoff, a former senior intelligence official.

While Israel hammered away at Hamas militants in the Palestinian enclave of Gaza after Oct. 7, Iran and its Hezbollah allies prepared for an eventual ground attack from Israel into Lebanon. Instead, Israel took a different tack, targeting Hezbollah’s commanders and its top leader through airstrikes and booby-trapped pagers used by Hezbollah’s members. Israeli forces staged only a small incursion into southern Lebanon.

Alex Plitsas, a former Defense Department official with the Atlantic Council think tank, said, “The dominoes that fell after Oct. 7th left Iran’s proxy network in shambles, eroded deterrence and reduced its counterstrike capabilities.”

But he said Iran failed to adapt and refused diplomatic overtures from Washington despite its increasingly vulnerable position.

Seth Jones, of the Center for Strategic and International Studies, said that after the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s, Tehran invested heavily in arming and training militias in the region through its Revolutionary Guard Corps, with Hezbollah as the anchor of an “axis of resistance.”

The scheme worked for decades, Jones said, but it neglected the country’s armed forces, which have fallen far behind.

“What it means is that your conventional forces don’t get the same level of focus,” Jones said.

During Israel’s air campaign, “the Iranians were fighting an enemy that’s got fifth-generation F-35 stealth aircraft.”

“They just don’t have an answer to that,” Jones added.

Iran has also faltered on the diplomatic front.

In talks over its nuclear program, Iran’s leaders stuck to an uncompromising stance mistakenly believing they could buy more time and secure more concessions from Trump, as well as his predecessor, Joe Biden, experts said.

Over four years, Iran dragged its feet and delayed talks with the Biden administration, which had expressed a willingness to revive and revise the 2015 nuclear deal, which Trump had abandoned in 2018, Western officials say.

When Trump returned to the White House, his special envoy, Steve Witkoff, offered Iran a way to continue to enrich uranium for a period of years, while other countries in the region would help it develop a civilian nuclear energy program. The Israeli government and Republican hawks were worried that Trump’s offer was too generous. But Iran appeared to misread Trump, calculating that it could extend the talks over a longer period, experts and Western officials say.

In the end, the billions of dollars and decades of effort Iran devoted to its nuclear program “provided the nation neither nuclear energy nor deterrence,” Karim Sadjadpour, of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, wrote on social media.

Relying on Russia

Apart from its regional network of proxy forces stretching from Lebanon to Yemen, Iran had long relied on the Syrian regime of Bashar al-Assad as its only genuine ally. But Sunni rebels ousted Assad in December, and Iranian Revolutionary Guard officers are no longer welcome in Damascus.

Iran also had portrayed its increasing cooperation with Russia as a “strategic” partnership, with Tehran providing thousands of Shahed drones for its war on Ukraine, as well as technical advice to help Moscow build the unnamed aircraft on Russian territory. In return, Iran acquired some Russian air defense systems, but promised fighter jets and other hardware never materialized.

Over the past two weeks, Israel’s air force destroyed Iran’s radars and Russian anti-aircraft weaponry, with Tehran losing control over its airspace.

Russian President Vladimir Putin made no mention of providing military assistance to Iran when he met Iran’s foreign minister, Abbas Araghchi, in Moscow on Monday.

Despite Iran’s hard-line rhetoric about conquering its enemies and its extensive intelligence and security apparatus, Israel has repeatedly carried out sabotage and assassinations of top military officers, nuclear scientists, the leaders of Hezbollah in Lebanon and the leaders of Hamas in Gaza. The operations have humiliated Iran’s regime and shown that the country’s intelligence services are unable to protect top-ranking officers or other key figures.

“Iran’s entire investments in its forward defense, missiles program and nuclear capabilities evaporated in the course of 12 months of regional war and 12 days of war on its own territory,” said Vaez, of the International Crisis Group. “Judging by that outcome, there is no question that Iran miscalculated at every turn.”

#nunyas news

12 notes · View notes

anony-man · 4 months ago

Text

This is a long one… read under the cut or on ao3. Enjoy!

Chubformers drabble #181!

Characters: Starscream (& Trine - G1)

Word count: 2.1k

A grounded seeker was never a pleasant seeker, and that was basic knowledge by know. Add in a mech named Starscream and his poor trine, still flight ready and able to take to the skies without any trouble, and your unpleasantness of your situation increased tenfold.

If you asked the two remaining seekers of the Elite Trine that had not been shot out of the sky whether or not their avoidance of the poor injured flier was intentional, they would have immediately responded with absolutely. Starscream was far from tolerable even without the added bonus of being restricted from strenuous exercise, and coupled with the fact that neither Skywarp nor Thundercracker had suffered even the slightest bit of lasting damage from the awful siege Megatron had led, he had become an absolute pain. Not even the few medics still alive and well amongst the Deception ranks dared to linger in the trine’s shared quarters for longer than was necessary, and that was saying something.

Starscream made an awful patient, and he made an even more awful companion during the long and arduous healing process. He was going to survive, at least, and in the long run, the only thing left injured would be his massive ego. It was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, and that came as no surprise to anyone. Still… he had to heal up first. He had to heal up first, and he was making it pretty damn hard to get to that point.

In the mess hall, both Skywarp and Thundercracker had met up after duties for a chat and refuel. Neither mech was all that keen on heading out and socializing for longer than was necessary, but the atomic bomb of a trine leader sat like a bad omen in their futures. There was no way around it, in the end, but that didn’t mean they would subject themselves to the torture of entertaining Starscream’s screechy complaints any sooner than they had to. The day had left them both feeling exhausted, however, so to pass the time, they sat huddled together at a table in the far corner and simply shared space until the inevitable became too hard to avoid.

Patrols and recon missions had been going rather smoothly up until that point, and before Starscream had gone and injured himself, their troops had seen a steady increase in fuel qualities and quantities. It was a wonder Megatron had been so keen on exacting an unprompted attack on the Autobots so suddenly, especially when they finally seemed to have found a lull in the chaos. It was the head command for you, though, and just like Starscream and his daring stunts—all of which had gotten him struck down and pronounced grounded for the next several weeks—nobody seemed capable of going very long without at least a little bit of action to spice things up.

Thundercracker wouldn’t have minded keeping the peace a little while longer, even if said peace was just their respective leaders silently scheming amongst their own ranks. He said so aloud as he swirled his cube of energon and watched the thick, glossy fuel slosh against the sides, its quality easily detected in the thickness and rich, sweet smell alone.

“Would it kill us to have even a little bit of time to ourselves?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and his lip curled. “I mean, seriously. We have good fuel, everyone is—or was—at the top of their game… what the hell was Megatron thinking?”

It was easy to feel grouchy when everything that day seemed to have gone terribly wrong. His chores were exhausting, earth’s temperatures outside were killer (and of course he had been forced to weather them for the majority of his shift), and now he had nothing to look forward to the rest of the day aside from sharing a glitch session with Skywarp before bringing Starscream’s rations back to their quarters with him.

“I just want a moment’s peace,” he said, throwing his servos up in the air and nearly knocking his cube over in the process. An audible glorp rose from the energon inside as it sloshed, but the sea of disturbed fuel settled rather quickly—and much quicker than the average thin, diluted fuel he and his fellow ‘Cons had grown used to. “I mean, is that really so much to ask?”

Skywarp had drained his own cube the second he had sat down, and now he sat across from Thundercracker staring his fellow flier’s rations down. There was a distant look to his gaze, a hungry stare that told the poor groaning mech that Skywarp was definitely not hearing a single word he said. Regardless, he carried on ranting… but not without sliding his untouched cube across the table towards his hungry trinemate.

“I know,” he continued as he slouched forward in his chair and propped his helm up with a servo. “Megatron’s hungry for Prime’s helm on a stake and Starscream’s ego knows no limits. But seriously, ‘Warp, is it really all that unrealistic of me to want a—… uh… what are you doing?”

It was easy to mistake Skywarp’s distracted faces for scheming faces and vice versa, and when Thundercracker saw the wicked smile stretching across the other seeker’s face, he knew he had made the same mistake once again. He fought down his own burning curiosity and struggled to replace it with a scoff and a frown, but deep down, he wanted to know exactly what Skywarp had in mind.

“Oh, nothing,” the seeker said, having collected his empty cube and stacked it neatly under Thundercracker’s untouched ration. “Just coming up with a little something I call ‘our key to putting an end to Starscream’s obnoxious attitude problem.’”

The words were punctuated with a single servo making air quotes, and before Thundercracker could prod for further explanation, Skywarp was already teleporting from the table and back to the fuel dispensary. The empty cube he carried along with him was quickly refilled, and he grabbed another ration for Starscream while he was at it. That, of course, made sense… but when he went to grab another cube, and then another, and then yet another? That was where Thundercracker was stumped.

“Skywarp,” Thundercracker pressed once he’d untangled himself from their table and rushed over to Skywarp’s side. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“I told you,” Skywarp said, “I’m finding a logical solution to our unlogical problem. Here, take these—my servos are getting full.”

“Um,” Thundercracker stammered, but obliged, “I think you mean illogical, but wha—what—… what are you trying to do here? Talk to me, fill me in on what’s going on.”

Skywarp did… eventually. It took several cubes stacked in both his arms and his trinemate’s arms to get to that point before he did, though. Needless to say, his twisted plans to shut their leader up and put an end to the needless bickering and moaning that had kept them both at bay since he’d comeback from the brink of offlining was brilliant, and it was genius.

In their shared quarters, the mess of soft linens and puffy pillows sat an angry ball of gauze and dented metal who snapped and snarled at the slightest bit of movement. Starscream was always a pain in the aft when he was injured, but a no-flight sentence was no better than a swift death at the hands of the Autobots… and that was for his trinemates, not him.

The grounded seeker was grouchy before they had so much as made it through the door, and as Thundercracker helped his companion carry their bounty to the nearest hard surface, Starscream began to complain.

“There you two are,” he huffed, crossing his arms as best he could given the state of his frame. “Thought I’d never see the next cube of fuel before the fragging day ended.”

“Please,” Thundercracker said with a roll of his optics, “you hardly need it, now that you’re stuck inside all day.”

The comment earned him a growl and an angry wing flutter from Starscream, which further earned him the satisfying sound of a mech hissing in pain as he eased himself forward and took the pressure and weight off his torn appendages. Thundercracker tried to hide his satisfaction behind a servo while Skywarp openly snickered, and together they began tearing the lids off of each individual container of energon they’d brought back.

It was a huge quantity in the end. He was almost surprised at the gall Skywarp had.

“It’s nowhere near as nice as getting outside for some fresh air,” Starscream continued to grumble. Beneath the blankets shrouding his frame, he tapped an impatient pede. “What I wouldn’t give to be stretching my wings right now. Bah! It’d get me away from you aft ports.”

When no snappy retorts met his pitiful complaints, Starscream continued on, his pede tapping faster and his arms crossed all the more dramatic over his chest.

“Hmph! I bet you two idiots had the time of your lives out there. You can still take off, after all… and hell, your poor wings aren’t being reattached to your frame with the hopes and dreams of a few well placed wire—!”

Understandably so, neither Skywarp nor Thundercracker had much tolerance for their trine leader’s antics any longer, and the long string of shouted insults and complaints was stopped by the lip of a cube being thrusted against his mouth. Starscream barely had time to react, let alone protest, before the first cube of the day was being tilted back, and rather than let it spill down his front and muddy up his already scratched up plating, he drank.

Stupid trinemates, stupider medics… he still drank, and he drank until the bottom of the cube became clear, and the container had been drained of fuel.

“Holy slag,” Skywarp laughed from across the room, “it actually worked!”

Starscream shoved the empty cube away and quickly wiped his face, all too aware of the satisfied smile of pure smugness that Thundercracker wore as he stared down at him.

“What worked?” he snapped, “and Primus, what the hell was—mmph!”

Another cube was at the ready, and though this time he tried to fight his feeder off, Starscream had no choice but to drain it all, too. The liquid was thick, the energon rich, and by the time he’d managed to polish his second serving off, his belly was feeling more bloated than it had felt in ages.

“Nothing much you can do about a grounded flier,” Thundercracker said as he took the third cube from Skywarp, who snickered from the safety of standing several feet away after delivering his fuel. “It’s a pain in both our afts to have to listen to you badger on about your poor state though, Starscream.”

Starscream had the nerve to look appalled at the admission. “What, you feel bothered by it?” he all but shrieked. “How do you think I feel, trapped here in this room all day, forced to listen to you both tromping around and carrying on? I can hardly stand it, let alone—“

Another cube was forced to his lips, and another serving of rich, heavy energon was poured down Starscream’s throat. He was struggling now, the weight of a sudden influx in fuel overwhelming his desires to talk scrap, and with a shared look of triumph, Skywarp and Thundercracker realized that they had finally cracked the code.

“You’re the one who’s a pain in both are afts, ‘Screamer,” Skywarp cut in as he skipped across the room and replaced the empty cube in Thundercracker’s servo with a full one. “Maybe try not being an absolute terror of a patient next time and we’ll start taking pity on you.”

“Or better yet,” Thundercracker said, already grabbing ahold of Starscream’s helm to hold him still as he tilted the next cube back and poured the fuel in, “don’t take stupid risks like you did before. That would save us all a lot of pain in the long run, don’t you think?”

Of course it would, and they all knew that. But this was Starscream they were dealing with, and Starscream they were talking to, which meant no amounts of begging or reasoning would do. They had to resort to petty actions like filling up the mech’s fuel tanks until he couldn’t take it anymore… or until he stopped running his mouth like he ran his engines while soaring through the skies.

“Take it from us,” the two seekers said as Starscream tore his face away from the latest cube and panted for breath, “stop being an aft. Start flying responsibly. And for Primus’ sake… quit blaming us for your own mistakes!”

It was a lesson that would stick, they hoped, but knowing Starscream, it was unlikely to happen. No worries, though. They had all evening yet, and the feeding had just begun.

#chubformers #g1 starscream #g1 skywarp #g1 thundercracker #anon man writes

14 notes · View notes

pinturas-sgm-aviacion · 11 months ago

Text

1940 05 Westland Lysander MkIII - box art Italeri

The Westland Lysander was a short take off and landing (STOL) aircraft that was initially employed in the forward observer/artillery spotter/army cooperation role. It would later provide air support for what would subsequently be called covert operations in Occupied Europe. It first flew on June 15, 1936 and was a factor in the post-war development of a STOL requirement by the world’s major air forces. Entering service with the Royal Air Force in June 1938, its design was significantly influenced by the German Henschel Hs 126, a similar aircraft in the Luftwaffe inventory. The Lysander was fully operational with No. 16 (Army Co-operation) Squadron at the time of the Munich Crisis in September 1938, and began the R.A.F’s process of phasing out its then designated artillery spotter aircraft, the Hawker Hector bi-plane.By the time war broke out a year later, it was in service with seven squadrons, six of which deployed to France in the first months of the war (Nos. 2, 4, 13, 26, 613 and 614). When hostilities in the West began in earnest in May 1940 with Germany’s invasion of France and the Low Countries, Lysanders began reconnaisance and artillery spotting operations, with Nos. 2 and 4 Squadrons re-deploying to Belgium.On occasion, Lysanders gave a surprisingly good account of themselves when pitted against state-of-the-art German fighters. In one action, a group of Lysanders was attacked by six Messerschmitt Bf 110s over Belgium, and the rear gunner of one of them, L.A.C. Gillham, shot down one of the 110’s, before his pilot could escape at low level. In the coming weeks, Lysanders were frequently set upon by Bf 109’s, particularly when unescorted by their own fighters. While not fast, they were highly manueverable; if they were lucky, they would escape with mere battle damage. But between May 10 and May 23, 1940, nine crews and 11 aircraft were lost to enemy action. On the 25th still more were caught on the ground in a strafing attack at Clairmarais and destroyed.By the time of the Dunkirk evacuation, the Lysander squadrons had been decimated, having virtually no serviceable aircraft. Often their crews flew against intimidating odds, being called upon to air drop supplies without fighter escort to British or French troops, or provide ground support with their loads of 40 lb. bombs, all in skies increasingly dominated by the Luftwaffe. They inflicted damage along the way; on May 22 Flying Officer Dodge shot down a Henschel Hs 126 with his forward machine guns, while his rear gunner downed a Junkers Ju 87 Stuka. But this was the exception. Of 174 aircraft deployed to France, 88 were lost in air combat and 30 more destroyed on the ground by the time the French capitulated.

After Dunkirk, contemplating a loss rate of 63 percent, the RAF had little choice but to withdraw the Lysander from front line service — at least for daytime operations. The Lysander would go on to its greatest fame as the aircraft of choice for Special Operations Executive, a covert auxiliary of (and competitor to) the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), charged by Winston Churchill with covert operations in the Occupied Countries and a mandate to “set Europe ablaze.” Soon, on a regular basis, Lysanders of No. 138 Squadron (Special Duties), painted matt black, inserted agents and their weapons, ammunition, explosives and other supplies, and withdrew shot-down airmen. Sometimes they withdrew people wanted by the Gestapo, or brought Resistance leaders back to London for briefings. Lysanders would later be used by both the British Commandos and the American Office of Strategic Services on similar operations in Europe and the Far East.

Landing in unprepared clearings or meadows at night, the landing ground identified by small torches lit by members of the Resistance, Lysanders helped sustain hope in Occupied Europe and Asia. By 1942 they were equipped with larger fuel tanks (starting with the Mk. IIIa) to allow penetration deeper into France, and their ladders touched up with flourescent paint to allow quicker ingress and egress from the plane. There was constant danger – one on occasion, a Lysander guided to a landing by torches touched down, only to be met by German machine gun fire. The pilot, Squadron Leader Conroy, slammed the throttle open and struggled to get airborne, stemming the blood from a neck wound by clamping his hand over it. Brushing the treetops at the edge of the landing field, he managed to return safely to England.

In the Middle East, Lysanders were able to operate longer in their original roles of artillery spotting and reconnaisance since Axis fighter aircraft were not as readily available. In Palestine, they flew throughout 1940 doing aerial blackout inspections, coastal watch, and general co-operation with the Palestine Police. In North Africa, No. 6 Squadron was deployed to Libya and was ordered to remain in Tobruk when the British retreated from Rommel’s Afrika Korps, providing close air support over the beseiged garrison, which continued to hold out. During the war, Lysanders were operated by Britain, France, Ireland, Canada, Finland, Egypt, and South Africa. By war’s end they were a rarity, except in Canada, where relatively large numbers of them persisted until the 1950’s.

#italeri #box art

40 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 9 months ago

Text

Ukraine is outraged by the unwavering American support for Israel, calling it a "double standard" as the United States refuses to intercept Russian missiles and drones over Ukraine, Politico reported on Oct. 16.

This week, the United States deployed the advanced THAAD missile defense system to protect Israel from Iranian ballistic missiles. However, Ukraine receives no similar level of assistance despite facing daily attacks from Russian drones, missiles, and bombs, the article states.

The reason for this discrepancy is that Russia possesses nuclear weapons, making Washington wary of escalating tensions with Moscow.

"The tough answer that Ukrainians may not like to hear but is unfortunately true is that we can take the risk of shooting down Iranian missiles over Israel without triggering direct war with Tehran that could lead to nuclear war," a high-ranking U.S. Senate aide working on Ukraine policy told Politico.

“There’s a lot more risk in trying that with Russia.”

Two officials from the Biden administration confirmed this. The White House fears that sending U.S. troops to Ukraine to intercept Russian missiles could provoke a direct military confrontation between the two leading nuclear powers, with potentially apocalyptic consequences.

"It is sad to look at all this as an ordinary citizen of Ukraine — when in an agreement to prevent escalation on the part of Moscow, your country and citizens are being sacrificed," said Mykola Bielieskov, a research fellow at the Ukrainian National Institute for Strategic Studies.

Kyiv wants Poland and Romania to help intercept Russian targets over western Ukraine. This option is being discussed, but the countries have not changed their policies yet, Politico writes. Warsaw has stated that it will not act without full NATO alliance support.

Meanwhile, two Ukrainian air defense officers, speaking on condition of anonymity, explained that it is easier for the United States to defend Israel's skies because it is a small country, and America can use ship-based air defense systems. In contrast, Ukraine is vast and inaccessible to Western fleets; its allies would need to place air defense systems on the country's western border, from which they could only protect adjacent territory.

"NATO members entering into the aerial defense of Ukraine would need to bring a much larger contribution, over a broader area, with a greater risk of ‘entering the war’ for uncertain gains," said Matthew Savill, military sciences director at the Royal United Services Institute in London.

“The cost would also be greater, as the frequency of Russian attacks is far greater than the significant but reactive Iranian attempts to strike Israel directly.”

However, Ukraine's frustration is growing as the Biden administration is not doing enough to help Kyiv stop Russian attacks, Politico notes. This includes slow weapons deliveries and a ban on using long-range missiles to strike Russian territory.

According to the outlet, U.S. officials are aware of Kyiv's growing dissatisfaction. They stated that they are working on new weapons supplies, which they hope will address the outrage.

Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin authorized on Oct. 13 the deployment of a THAAD battery and associated U.S. military personnel to bolster Israel's air defense following Iranian attacks on April 13 and Oct. 1.

Pentagon spokesperson Sabrina Singh said on Oct. 15 that the United States will not intercept missiles over Ukraine as it does over Israel because "the wars are different."

29 notes · View notes

dujour13 · 8 months ago

Text

Owlcatober 27. Portrait

Fandom: Wrath of the Righteous

More Sosiel 💖 This one sort of follows on 20. Honor

Also on AO3

At first Sosiel thought the colorfully dressed half-elf standing with the Queen before the ranks of the Fifth Crusade must be some sort of herald, a bard she’d hired to lend some cheer to the occasion before she presented the new Knight-Commander to his troops.

By now he’d heard the new Knight-Commander was Andoren, the sole survivor of the Diplomatic Corps caravan massacre, and that made two things they had in common. Impatiently he craned his neck to peer over a pauldron.

And saw the Queen present the bard.

Who gave the troops a friendly wave.

For a few seconds Sosiel watched in confusion, and then slowly began to smile.

The Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade looked like one of those urban artsy types Sosiel admired when he was younger, probably from Almas or Augustana. Not a hint of stern military discipline in his clothing or demeanor as he stepped up and gave a short speech in a warm, strong tenor with an unmistakable Andoren accent—something about the Fifth Crusade welcoming all without discrimination, about the resilience of heterogeneity—but Sosiel was too excited to listen, his painter’s eye transfixed.

Amidst the leaden sky and mud, the dull gray armor marked only by pale patches of icy white and red more like blood than heraldry, the Knight-Commander was a lone spring flower.

Later he was surprised to receive a personal invitation from the Queen to join her in the command tent. After all the grief her inquisitors had given him he’d been sure they wouldn’t let him anywhere near her, but apparently his midnight ride to Nerosyan had already become somewhat of a legend in the nascent Fifth Crusade and he found himself not only above suspicion but a minor celebrity among her royal escort.

When they entered, the Knight-Commander was not sitting at his desk but on it, ankles crossed. Up close Sosiel observed him curiously. It was always hard to tell with half-elves, but he guessed he must be several years Sosiel’s senior, with straw-colored hair and olive-gold eyes, cheerful in the lamplight. Tanned skin, Kelish nose, bright smile. Original assortment of colors. A Desnan pendant—no surprise at all, Sosiel thought.

“You’re from Carpenden?” Beaming, the Knight-Commander shook his hand. “Beautiful place.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve been there?”

“Are you kidding? I was at the harvest festival just a couple years ago. The time the ponies got loose. Hey, you don’t happen to have any wine?”

“No, I’m afraid when the Temple was attacked everything was ransacked, even our personal affairs.”

“Oh.” The Knight-Commander’s smile fell. “The Temple of Shelyn. I heard what happened. I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”

There was something so sincere in his eyes and in the way he squeezed his shoulder that Sosiel felt a sob rise in his chest and had to fight it down. So few had offered him words of compassion. “I—thank you. I miss them. We should treasure what time we have with those we love, since we never know when it may come to an end. But we all do what we must. I understand you find yourself similarly grieving.”

Judging by his shaky sigh, it sounded like the Knight-Commander could relate. “I didn’t expect the road to be easy, but no one thought it would be this rough. What brings a priest of the goddess of beauty all this way?”

“I can’t sit idly by and paint landscapes while people are dying,” said Sosiel with passion. “All the more now.”

At this the Knight-Commander looked surprised. “You’re right.”

Sosiel wondered if something he’d said had affected him in some way, because he glanced over his shoulder at the stack of paperwork on his desk and then down at his hands. “You’re exactly right,” he murmured.

He looked lost, far from his element. Uprooted. Sosiel thought back to his own journey here, leaving sunny skies and the promise of ripening grapes behind for the promise of struggle and glory—and instead finding grief.

“Knight-Commander, I’m organizing a funeral service for my fallen brethren at Martyr Zacharius’ cemetery. It would be a comfort to their loved ones if you would say a few words. And perhaps a comfort to… all of us who have lost people.”

When the Knight-Commander raised his eyes again there was a look of gratitude, and also resolve. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there. Thank you. And by the way—”

“Yes?”

“I’m not big on titles. Just call me Siavash.”

In the following days the Knight-Commander—Siavash—was too busy to visit the chapel tent, and it was just as well. Sosiel felt absurdly proud of his latest oeuvre, so proud that it would mortify him should the Knight-Commander witness what he had unknowingly inspired.

It was embarrassingly beautiful. Flushed, Sosiel turned the canvas backward to hide it just in case, but not without one last pleased glance at the way the crushing steel whorl of Mendev, silvery white and streaked with mud and fire, bore up amidst its pain and chaos a single bloom of sky-blue and gold (and rose, amber, forest green, lavender and turquoise), deceptively fragile-looking but casting a glow on the mist surrounding it like a beacon, a promise of warmth and kindness that made the bleakness bearable.

“Sosiel… that’s…”

“My first impression of the new Knight-Commander. I left it in storage at the Temple when we marched on Drezen.”

Siavash grabbed him around the shoulders and squeezed.

“Tell me you’re crying because you like it.”

“I look so lost and lonely.”

“And look at you now. You know, I felt a kinship with you at the beginning of the Crusade. I hoped we could be friends.”

Siavash laughed fondly as Sosiel filled his glass. “Can I tell you a secret? When you told me back then that you couldn’t paint while people were dying, you gave me the push I needed. I was getting ready to ditch.”

“No.” Sosiel smiled incredulously.

“Yeah. When the Queen gave me the title I thought she meant as a figurehead. I didn’t think it would involve paperwork.”

“So this mess is all my fault.”

“Entirely.” Siavash brought his glass to his lips and stopped. “Wait, this isn’t one of Yumillian’s, is it?”

“Go ahead. It’ll be fine.”

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #my writing #owlcatober 2024 #pwotr pals #sosiel vaenic #siavash

23 notes · View notes